


Cat & Mouse

by BellJarred



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Gender Neutral, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral Reader, M/M, Post-Canon, Reader-Insert, Self-Insert, reader - Freeform, reader-insert romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 06:52:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13735470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellJarred/pseuds/BellJarred
Summary: Show up, hit the buffet, pray for an open bar, and repeat--that was what you had come to expect from every business party your organization forced you to attend. When asked to RSVP for a fundraising soiree by the mysterious RFA, you had no reason to anticipate anything out of the ordinary. When the hostess finds you, seeking to do more than a run-of-the-mill "thank you for attending" exchange, things become a lot more interesting as soon as you lock eyes with the handsome stranger by her side.





	Cat & Mouse

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! My Yoosung story is well underway, but, as you know, Mystic Messenger routes take a little while to get underway. I’m playing through Yoosung’s route right now, but I’m so into the fandom right now that I started watching playthroughs for the other routes. It turns out that 707 is probably my second fav behind Yoosung, so whilst watching Froggy Play’s run-through of his route, I couldn’t help but brainstorm about showing the resident “Hacker God” some love. Updates for this will come more gradually than Yoosung’s story, and, overall, this will probably be a shorter fic. Thanks!

“Thank you so much for coming, [First Name]!”

At the unexpected introduction, your entire body bristles. Your mouth, filled to capacity with half-chewed chunks of biscuit sticks, looks the part of a Pollock painting made entirely out of crumbs. One of your hands grasps at an empty sweets box so tightly that it begins to crumple, and the other, is frozen, mid-scoop in attempts to ladle some sparkling red punch into a champagne flute.

“Mmph,” you swallow suddenly, forcing the contents of your mouth down quickly and praying, all the while, not to choke. “We meet at last, Ms. Party Planner.”

It was inevitable that she, the infamous hostess of this ritzy shindig, would feel obligated to make a round of salutations at some point. A simple survey of the ballroom before you told you enough to know that she must have been very good at her job—every decoration was perfectly quaffed, every appetizer steaming fresh, and every guest of a self-important air or aristocratic grace. However, you hadn’t quite expected to rank so highly on her priority list. Although it was true that you had been predisposed to stuff your face at the buffet, you were not one to let such important details go unobserved. Hadn’t she only finished shaking hands with that arrogant oil prince that was always in the news only moments ago? Could your role at the party _really_ compare?

“I’m sorry if I startled you, [First Name],” she began with a sheepish smile—you wrought your brain for any inclination of her name, but felt a bit ashamed to be unable to recall it even after the massive quantity of emails you had exchanged over the past few weeks. “Normally I’d like to approach an honored guest when they’re a little more preoccupied, but there was somebody I was really excited for you to meet!”

You hadn’t paid the hostess enough attention to see beyond the obvious details of her person—an elegant party dress and a modest amount of makeup adorning her features, a half-spent glass of red wine in her left hand—so of course you hadn’t thought to pay attention to any one of the handsome men and women which seemed to swarm about her person like bees to honey.

“Is that so?” you remarked coolly, and your gaze shifted slowly to the man at her side. As you expected, he was one of the few who seemed to be virtually attached at the hip with the hostess, a twenty-something gentleman with vibrant vermilion locks and golden eyes which piqued defiantly out from behind the thick lenses of yellow-rimmed glasses. He was probably the most under-dressed of those that your current conversation partner kept in her party as he stood before you with a somewhat uninterested expression on his face. His evening attire consisted of a simple white vest layered over a black dress shirt and accessorized with a plain red tie, and his lower half, adorned with far less variance, consisted of black slacks, black dress shoes, and black socks.

“Say hello, Seven,” the hostess instructed as she nudged the mysterious man with a wayward elbow. “This is [Full Name], the representative from that _Hacker_ organization I told you about.”

Finally, it seemed as though the male's attention was piqued.

“You give away my profession so casually,” you whined, sporting a comical pout the hostess’ way. “Maybe I shouldn’t have RSVPed so easily…”

The hostess blinks, and in mere seconds she transforms from a competent party planner to a bundle of nerves.

“Oh! Forgive me, [First Name]. It’s just that you and 707 have that in common, so I thought you might get along!” the hostess wails, and her exclamation tapers off into a miserable continuation of apologies.

“707?” you repeat, blinking owlishly at the way the name feels on your lips. “Really? And just what kind of hacker goes by that?”

This man—this 707 who had previously felt content to remain silent seemed to come to life at this incredulous jab.

“The kind of hacker that probably gets more work than you. What do you go by, anyway? I’ve never heard of [First Name], so I hope for your sake that’s not your alias,” 707 retorts somewhat saucily as he waves a hand about in casual dismissal.

“What does she/he mean, Seven?” the hostess questions, her expression completely transparent of her confusion.

“Given what a hacker knows, isn’t 707 the most _sentimental_ error code there is?” you shrug, pausing only a moment before deciding to effortlessly chug the contents of your recently-filled champagne flute. “And as if I’d tell just anybody, so why don’t you try to find out? Come on, impress me~”

The hostess blinks rapidly as her gaze shifts between you two—is it only her imagination, or is lightening practically sparking between your locked gaze?

“I just knew the two of you would get along well,” she murmurs triumphantly. After all, if there was one thing she had learned how to handle expertly in her short time at the RFA, it was her guests, members or otherwise.

And so, the game of cat and mouse began.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
